Boy
by blueowls
Summary: Brittany x Santana. //Santana licks her lips quickly before she speaks, something Brittany can’t help but notice, and cocks a hip as she leans up against the doorjamb, smirking.//


**Author Note:** None.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**Boy**

It's something Brittany's done a million times before—pull up in front of Santana's house, park, get out, walk the steps up to the door. But this time, she rings the doorbell instead of letting herself in and shuffles her weight from one foot to the other, thumbs hooked through the belt loops of her low slung jeans and trying to look nonchalant and cocky at the same time, and when Santana opens the door, she freezes, one hand still clutching the doorknob and the other low on her hip, grip scrunching the fabric of her tight black jeans.

That old Visa commercial comes to mind—price of jeans, fifty dollars; price of shirt, thirty-six dollars; seeing Santana utterly speechless, priceless. Well, no. That's a lie. The artfully beat-up Vans are courtesy of Kurt and his relatively small feet—not to mention distaste of anything masculine or less then two hundred dollars, considering he told her he didn't care if she returned them or not—and the belt's something she's had for a while but never worn because it was a little too plain for her taste.

The guy jeans are dark and slim but not too tight, cinched with the belt that's mostly hidden, and she's got a nondescript v-neck shirt on under a hoodie, with a vintage-feeling black pea coat borrowed from Kurt thrown over it. She's got her hair pulled back straight in a standard Cheerio ponytail, though, because she's only adopting an illusion of masculinity—cutting her hair or anything else permanent is not something she's going to be doing. Kurt's helped her, and it's mostly in the way she holds herself or how she walks—"It's _all_ in the strut," Kurt insists, and makes her walk across his room again—that's going to make this all come together.

Santana licks her lips quickly before she speaks, something Brittany can't help but notice, and cocks a hip as she leans up against the doorjamb, smirking.

"Hey," she purrs.

Self-doubt and insecurity aren't issues Brittany's ever dealt with, which turns out to be really, really helpful, because most of this is just getting the swagger right and she's already halfway there. Mr. Scheuster and Finn are horrible examples to follow—Mike and Matt are nonissues—and Puck's not a fantastic role model either, but she tries to channel his careless confidence.

"Ready?" Brittany asks quietly. Her voice isn't breathy, like Quinn's, or pitched at a level that would make dogs howl, like Rachel, so she doesn't make any attempt to lower or deepen it. She's aiming for illusion, not reality. Santana reaches up and runs a hand through her hair, tossing it over her shoulder as she turns and disappears, grabbing a coat out of the hall closet before stepping out and locking the door behind her, draping it loosely over her shoulders because actually wearing it would ruin the outfit.

And it's a nice outfit, if slightly inappropriate given the weather. There's no snow, but the temperature hovers not far above freezing, enough to warrant layers and a good jacket. Santana apparently didn't get the memo and clutches onto Brittany's arm as they head toward her car, her footing careful because her boots have stiletto heels and wearing a flashy silver top that shows just the right amount of cleavage because it's nice not to wear tennis shoes and polyester once in a while, even if they don't really have anywhere to go.

They end up at Denny's because Lima is tiny and it's the only thing open that late at night, not caring that they're dressed much too nicely to be sitting in a booth with old vinyl seats and sticky plastic menus. They order pancakes and hash browns—and whatever else they can think of that sends a big, caloric FU to Sylvester's diet plan—just to be safe because it _is_ Denny's, and God knows you'd have to be pretty fucking terrible to screw up breakfast. They sit side-by-side, free hands clasped under the table and thighs touching, shoulders bumping. Brittany butters a sliver of bacon and dips it in syrup before holding the fork out to Santana, an eyebrow arched and smirking, and Santana accepts the dare, retaliating with a fork-full of hash brown dragged through the grease the bacon left on the plate.

An hour after they've pushed their empty plates away, the waitress is shooting them glares regularly from her cash register, as if their quiet conversation is getting too rowdy for a restaurant boasting a total of four other patrons, and they leave, Brittany slapping down cash on the table but stiffing the waitress on the tip because when she asks herself What Would Puck Do, it seems fitting. On second thought, Puck would probably dine and dash and get a phone number in the process, but that's pushing the whole thing too far.

They wander some more because the night is still young, Santana on her arm again, and they end up in some dark park, Santana pulling Brittany down onto the dewy grass beside her. Inevitably, making-out leads to leads to more, and Brittany's on top of her, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to Santana's neck as her hand deftly pops open the button of Santana's jeans, dipping under black lace.

"Do you like it?" Brittany mumbles, hand still as she drags teeth across skin with just the right amount of pressure. The guy jeans, the swagger, the macho confidence, everything—it's all for Santana. Not that she minds pants and shirts, because who doesn't except maybe Rachel, but she'd like to wear pretty dresses and heels, too. She doesn't hold her breath as she waits for an answer because that's a stupid cliché that only works in books and she's aware that her breathing's only slowed and quieted, but not stopped, and the relative silence of the night is deafening as Santana presses her forehead to her shoulder, hips arching up against her own and tugging at the front of her jeans, her answer a needy, panting whimper.

"Yeah."

Monday, Brittany shows up at school in her Cheerio uniform as usual—adding a dash of perfume and painting her neatly-filed nails a light pink that Sylvester's going to chew her out for—and can't help but think that maybe Santana would love her more if she were a boy.


End file.
